


Checkmate

by gaylock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, BAMF John Watson, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Protective Mycroft, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:51:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock





	1. Part 1: Did You Miss Me?

John didn't believe the rumors. Anyone could spread a rumor.

He didn't believe the immediate conclusion that the Government (aka Mycroft) tried to jump to for the first killing. As he knew to his disgust, particularly since the war, anyone could kill.

He didn't believe the stammering witness who was paraded before the jury to try to persuade them to justify extreme force. Anyone could stammer and blush and pale and even faint, if that was necessary. John had seen more tricks from witnesses in the few months since the fall than he had expected to see in a lifetime.

 

When he saw him for himself, he began to believe.

 

John had chosen a house on the outskirts of London. When the doors of detective work had closed behind him for the last time, he found that he wasn't in such a hurry to leave after all. True, his time as Sherlock's doctor held some of his most horrible memories, but also some of his best. It was a place of the past.

John was sick of trying to leave the past behind.

True, he was away most of the day, and often a good portion of the night, his schedule was only worse since he had become a full medical doctor. But he still got to spend a lot of time at the house, sometimes even entire weekends, and he had found that he liked looking at a garden that was his own and tending the small flowers that were all he grew in it and looking over its stone walls. On a clear night, if he looked hard enough, John thought he could even make out the rough outline of St. Barts. Where it all happened.

  
It served as a vivid reminder.   


He slept in a bedroom that overlooked the garden. It had wood-paneled walls and reminded John both greatly and not at all of his room in his army days. He was fond of it, and of the thick scratchy blankets that draped the foot of the bed, a present from Molly and of the Landscape painting that hung on the wall, a gift from Greg. He placed his polished gun on the mahogany table. This was his favourite room and the place he considered the most comfortable in the house

  
The bullet came through the window. Only the way John had arranged the bed meant it went over his head instead of into it. At least his training had been thorough enough to make him snatch his gun up a moment later and roll off the bed and then underneath it, listening intently for breathing all the while.

  
It was there. Laughter like a ghost's laugh. Light, creaking footsteps, that made John think at first, with the dreams still clinging in shreds and tatters to his mind, that an enormous puppet was coming after him. A sharp face that poked into his window, rising as if fearless, staring into the shadows.

  
Searching for him.

 ****  
James Moriarty.  


John took a deep breath, put aside all the jabber in his brain about how he was dead, and flung himself out from under the bed. There was no way to disguise his rush. He didn't try. He just rose up in front of the window and shot his gun, trying his best just to kill him, kill him and have it done with.

  
He hit him. He flew back and hit the wall. There was a noise like a mousetrap going off. John rose up with his hand on the windowsill, half-kneeling, ready to duck again if he picked himself up.

  
He picked himself up again. "Did you miss me?"

  
This time, John could see the source of the creaking and the puppet-like noise. He moved with the shuffling, limping gait of someone on strings, and when he opened his mouth, he produced the hysterical manic laughter he had heard before. He could be hurt, and John suspected he was carrying a lot of wounds around on his body that hadn't healed.

  
But he just wouldn't die.

  
"You can't kill me, honey," he said. "Villains don't die, not really. They just sleep for a while, and then BOOM! They're back. Small chance that you'd manage, anyways. You're too little, just ordinary. A pawn in this game." And he lifted his gun and shot John in the arm, making his elbow explode in white-hot pain.

  
Unfortunately for Moriarty, John had a high pain tolerance. It made Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson shake their heads, but it saved his life now. He ignored the wound and pain, managing to lift his arm anyway, pressing down on the trigger. If he couldn't kill him, he would wound the bastard enough to capture him. Then he'd let Mycroft deal with him.

  
But he was gone before the first shot rang out, shrieking in laughter and calling out "catch you later".

  
John smiled grimly.

**The game was on.**


	2. Part 2: The Search

He leaned his head on the windowsill and whimpered a little, because his elbow really hurt. Then he stood up and went to report the attack.

And ask for healing from the hospital. That was important, too.

"So he's really hunting you." Molly said it emptily, like an echo in a tomb, and put down her teacup so hard on the edge of the table John thought it would crack. Then she put her hands over her face and dragged them slowly down, breathing so rapidly that John winced. "Fuck."

"Yeah." John stared into his own teacup and wondered if they should be discussing this in the middle of Greg's office. Then he shook his head. The rumors of Moriarty's return were already everywhere, and he thought he was probably too mad to have allies in the Yard who would report their words to him.

Besides, he already knows he attacked me, he thought, touching his elbow with the flat of his hand. And so do I.

"How did he survive?" Greg tilted back his head and seemingly asked the ceiling.

John swallowed and shook his head. "I have no bloody idea."

Molly looked at him, the flat expression on her face saying more than her words could.

"I know, Molls. I know. " John said. "We know that he shot himself in the face, killed himself literally minutes before...," John closed his eyes briefly. Don't think about it, just don't. No one needs that reminder right now. He shook himself before continuing. "And he looked almost inhuman. More than psychotic."

"We never found his body. Mycroft had men searching for months, and nothing." Greg turned away to rearrange the paperwork on his desk, and his turned back was like a shut door. No, John thought in hopelessness, eyeing him, a shut door would have more tendency to open. "Surely we should have figured out he was alive sooner? Dead bodies don't just get up and walk away."

"We don't know everything about his network," John said. "But what we do know is that they are fast acting. Maybe fast enough to rescue Moriarty from the roof and nurse him back to health." He smiled, though he had the impression that his smile had the same desperation as the painted expression on a clown's face, and tried to lighten the mood. "Unless you're suggesting that he became a zombie and is now out looking for my brain."

"I don't want to joke about this," Greg said, and John winced and shut up for a long moment when he heard his voice.

"Sorry," John said at last. "But I do think that his network is our best option. We never uncovered all of his hidden bases, and he could have been removed to any one of them. Mycroft isn't even sure he found all of Moriarty's top agents, even after months of searching."

Molly turned around and stared at him this time. "How do you know that?"

"I kept track of it," John said, meeting Molly's eyes and wishing he knew why his palms were clammy and his forehead hot. After all, it wasn't as though Molly was the only one who would have liked to forget about that day, or the only one who knew things about post suicide investigations. "I thought-well, I reckon I never trusted that all his societies would have fallen apart without him. Or that the government could hope to find all of them."

"They didn't." Molly muttered, and lowered his head onto his folded arms. "They survived to come after us."

"I know," John said quietly. "But right now, we need to find out where they're hiding, and destroy them- all of them.  And then let me deal with Moriarty."

Greg sat with his head down for a few more minutes. He was taking deep, long breaths that made him sound as if he had a broken bone. But John stood still and left him alone, because he knew the signs. Greg was getting ready to take on a big task that he really hated. This was the way he'd acted before he went with Mycroft to the high security holding cells to question Sebastian Moran and Moriarty's other two top goons. And he had stayed down there, for an entire day and night, before he'd eventually got the answers that sealed the case.

Greg finally raised his head, and said, "Sorry, mate. If you were thinking that it would come up again someday, I just hoped that we were all done with it."

John nodded his acceptance. "So where do we begin?" Greg shrugged as Molly straightened up.

He should have anticipated her answer to that question, John thought later, looking around at the neatly labeled jars and row of microscopes in the lab. It wasn't St. Bart's (for obvious reasons) but a lab that Mycroft's people had provided Molly with after her contribution in catching Moriarty's men.

"He could have faked it," Molly said doubtfully, blowing lightly on the cup of tea in her hand before placing it on the counter. "Grilius, in 769, had a list of all the different ways one could fake their own death." She turned to examine something under her microscope, and her voice had a trace of the eager, chilling threat that John imagined in the voice of a pack of hounds hunting down prey. "In fact, many of them are still valid today, though a number of them have been overruled due to advancements in technology. I believe at least four of them have to do with guns."

"Still valid?" John asked, thinking of Sherlock and wondering if jumping fifty feet to your death could be faked.

Molly shot him a sharp look. "John, don't. He's dead, don't make this harder for all of us."

John nodded again. Now he was examining the walls and listening to the humming of the lights above. Mycroft took the safety of his friends seriously, and John knew at least three highly trained agents waited outside. Still, he wondered if the wards would hold up should Moriarty take it into his head to attack here.

And he very well might. Moriarty's madness had been purposeful, and the connection John had to him through Sherlock had made his actions at least the tiniest bit predictable (to Sherlock). John did not think he understood anything of the jagged, broken-pattern in which Moriarty's mind now seemed to work, though he would try to figure out his next move  but without the consulting detective, who knew how long this investigation would take?

"How are we going to find him?" he asked, thinking of that. "His societies could be placed all over. He could be hidden anywhere. Moriarty could tell us straight out what and where he was and we probably wouldn't understand him, seeing as he's only gotten madder." He clenched his fists in his lap and swore softly, thinking about it.

"Well, we aren't going to get anywhere by acting as though we'll lose before we begin the battle," Molly said, in the heavy tone that was meant to weigh down John's emotions like a paperweight so he could consider them calmly. "For the moment, we'll assume that Moriary is hidden at one of his unknown bases. There are a limited number of those, a few of which Mycroft has ideas as to their locations. Greg already has his people on it."

John took a deep breath, feeling as though he were surfacing from far beneath the water. "You're right, of course, Molls," he said. "Do you think we ought to make sure Moriarty's men are still imprisoned? We know he had the code; I'm not sure if it's been changed."

Molly gave him a faint smile. "I don't think we have to worry about that " she said soothingly. "The British Government has probably changed the codes by now; and even so, Jim is mad enough that he's probably forgotten them anyways." John opened his mouth to dispute that, but Molly held up a hand, and John subsided into grumbling silence. "We could check," Molly said. "But we know that he's had access to them and the code during the past year and done absolutely nothing to free them. That means we have nothing to worry about- at least not on that front." By now her eyes were intensely trained on him, and he couldn't help but notice the rabid determination in them. "We'll find him, John."

John relaxed. He would participate in the hunt, of course, because as much as he loved Molly, he had lost his faith in the 'side of the angels' infallibility over the years. But it was good to be reminded that the search was not hopeless.

 

It was good to have friends.


	3. Part 3: Desperation

After five hours in the chilly, sterile basement lab, in the non-descript Government building that was the base of their operation, John was beginning to reconsider his stance on hope.

Molly hadn't found anything in her research that showed them how Moriarty could have survived. Greg and his team hadn't been able to pinpoint more than two of the possible places MorIarty could be hidden, and John had spilled some acidic chemical on himself; resulting in a large hole is his jeans.

Though, Mycroft (with an air of dubiousness that made John feel as if it were about to storm the entire time he was in the lab) had let them examine the confidential, secret files on Moriarty's past societies and groups. They found nothing so far that seemed of value. Nor was there a single previously uncovered hideout that had any clues.

One of the officials that always seemed to pop up whenever Mycroft was involved had told them tartly that she rather thought the Government teams would have noticed one by now. John cheerfully pointed out just how incompetent they had proven themselves to be in the past (much to Greg and Mycroft's amusement) and how they had had to employ the help of a sociopathic self made detective and his limping veteran war doctor. The annoyingly righteous official shut up after that.

Sally had promptly suggested using the Underground Homeless Network, to try and find Moriarty or his men, and they had spent at fortnight trying to find and negotiate with the homeless. The bums were not impressed with their promises of money and food, but did what they could. In the end, however, that produced nothing, either; apparently Moriarty had hideouts even the homeless couldn't find.

He put aside yet another useless file and sighed. He watched Molly for a moment, surrounded by papers and muttering to herself. He smiled slightly.

"Do you think we'll find anything here?" he asked, when she slowed down, scanning a single file instead of a whole box and he thought it less likely she would start at the sound of his voice and topple over.

Molly stared at him. "I've already discovered the possibility of three ways he could have faked his death," she said.

"Yes," John sighed, "but do you think it's likely we'll find a clue as to where Moriarty is?"

Molly seemed to recall herself and rested her elbows on the open file in front of her. "No," she admitted reluctantly. "If they knew where he was, the Government would have captured him and stopped his societies already."

"Or he has someone on the inside," John muttered. Though he knew Mycroft was extremely careful and knew what he was doing, there was always the possibility that Moriarty had an inside man. After all, they all knew what he had been capable of before; the man had broken into all of London's most secure places in one day.

Molly glanced at him repressively. "They would know. They wouldn't take any chances, not with this, not with him." John nodded, but held onto his doubts.

Then Molly drooped a bit. "But I don't know any other source of information we might use," she admitted. "We might have to research for months before we even learn the locations of his network, never mind actually finding and trapping him."

"And we don't have months," John said, thinking of the attacks that had been executed last night. He didn't have to be a genius like Mycroft to know who was responsible. The victims hadn't died. It might have been kinder if they had.

"I know," Molly said. The weariness in her voice seemed to reach out and wrap around John like a dense, dusty smoke, choking off the slight hilarity that had been keeping him going so far. He felt anger bubble just under the surface, and tried not to scowl. He knew she was tired of this, they all were. But that didn't mean she should be allowed to shove it in his face, when he wasn't. She's not the one who lost everything that day, not the one who suffered from nightmares worse than his old soldier ones every single bloody night.

But looking at her face, the worry lines that hadn't been there two years ago, he let the anger bubble down to a simmer. It wasn't her fault, none of this was her fault. She didn't deserve his anger, when the one who was truly to blame was Moriarty. John stared at the floor between his feet and wondered what he was supposed to do. He was an ex-soldier, but that didn't mean he could protect people from Moriarty. He had killed men, had hunted serial killers and helped crush psychopaths, but then, he'd had a lot of outside help. He'd had him there, mind working faster than the speed of light, collecting data and facts and solving problems. And sure, he had Molly and Greg, Mycroft (and by extension the entire British Governmen). But it wasn't the same, it couldn't be the same. What was he supposed to do this time?

"I don't think we'll have to wait too long. James Moriarty has always been an impatient man, looking for his next bit of fun." John turned to see Mycroft step in through the doorway. "He'll give something away soon enough, because he doesn't play by the rules and because he loves the game. Which could either be good or bad for us, really," He said as he sat down, ever present umbrella resting against the side of the chair. "He could either accidentally let slip some important piece of information, leading to his capture; or, he could purposefully let slip some information and lure us into his trap." Mycroft shrugged.

"It would be so much simpler if he wasn't so goddammed crazy," Molly said, and Mycroft's lips twitched in a wry smile.

Inspiration hit John with the force of sunlight. He sat up and said, "What if he did, though? What if he's already let slip something?"

Molly froze and Mycroft turned to him, gaze intense and inquisitive. "You think he may have left a clue?" Molly whispered, and John nodded. Mycroft stayed silent, but his gaze never wavered. 

"But that doesn't leave us any better off. We still don't know if it was purposeful or not; it could be a trap." John shook his head at her.

"See, I don't think so. He's been hidden away for two years, biding his time. For a trap? No, for a game." John looked at Mycroft and saw the older man nodding slowly.

Molly shook her head. "I still don't see what you mean. How does that change anything? His games are the same thing as traps?"

John shook his head. "Think, Molly! He faked his own death before, why? Because he wasn't willing to actually die. And what did he call it? Not a game; the Final Problem. Problem, Molly, not Game. For it to be a game, you have to be willing to lose." Molly was slowly nodding her head, a look of dawning realization covering her face.

"Of course," she said. "The only question is, why now? Why is he willing now, and not before?"

Mycroft's voice cut in. "That, I think I can answer. It's not that he wasn't willing, he just wasn't ready. He wanted to watch his plan succeed, wanted to know he had won."

 

They were all silent for a moment, taking in this new information. John froze when something flittered across his mind. Something his best friend had once said. "It's chess." He whispered. Mycroft's head snapped up to stare at him, and John met his piercing gaze. "It's a game of chess. The reason he's here, the reason he's alive, is because the game isn't finished. It's not a new game, not at all! It's the same one from two years ago. Before that, actually."

Molly shook her head, confusion written on her features. "But I thought chess was over when the King died? Or was surrounded?"

"Sherlock wasn't the King." Mycroft said quietly, his grey eyes still trained on John. John thought he saw fear and sadness and something that looked like regret flash in his eyes. "He was the Queen. The most powerful, yes. But not the most important. I'm sure that Moriarty didn't know, not until the end, anyways. He always thought that they were both Kings in the game. He was wrong, so very wrong."

John swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat while Mycroft had been speaking, refusing to acknowledge the tears in his eyes at hearing that name. "Sherlock wasn't the King; I was. He was the Queen." He said quietly, straightening his back and locking his jaw. "The most powerful, taking out the most players, but always protecting me."

Molly was shaking so much that she knocked a few files to the floor. No one moved to pick them up.

Mycroft slowly tore his eyes away from John and shifted in his chair. Resting his hand on his umbrella, he stood up and faced the both of them, tucking his free hand into his waistcoat pocket. "It seems Moriarty has underestimated your importance. He always thought my brother was just like him, when in reality they were so different. But whereas James isn't capable of love, my brother certainly was, and to him, you were so much more than the pawn James thought of you as." He inclined his head and turned to go. When he reached the door he paused, before glancing back.

"Moriarty wasn't the only one to underestimate you, Dr. Watson. I'm afraid that I am also guilty. I am impressed with your deductions today, you have seen what none of us saw, not even myself. I think," he said slowly, turning to face John properly, "my brother would have been proud. Good day, Dr. Watson, Miss Hooper. I'll contact you if anything comes up." And with that, Mycroft Holmes was gone, leaving John and Molly alone in the room, listening to the fading sounds of footsteps paired with the tapping of an umbrella.


End file.
